On the Water
by luckyricochet
Summary: Life as a bargeman living in Lake-town isn't easy.


**A/N: I couldn't find if Bain or Sigrid was born first, so I just went with their actors' real ages. Thus, Sigrid is oldest and Bain is the middle child. **

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In the morning he rises with the sun, somewhat stiff from the cold and damp. Even though Bard sleeps with a spare, cleaner coat (so as to not dirty the bed things as quickly) and several blankets, he still feels the effects of the weather. He spares his children from the chilly nights by letting them use the extra quilt. It does not bother him so much—he is young yet and the aches fade after a short while of moving about. At least he does not have the gout, which he hears plagues the Master with all sorts of discomfort.

Bain is the first of the children to awaken. He comes into the kitchen and takes his share of breakfast. He and Bard speak quietly, man-to-man. Bain has grown quickly, Bard reflects to himself, ever since his mother died. They all have, to some extent, though Tilda still is very much a child.

She is always the last to wake up and is often irritable when forcibly roused, but it does not take long for her to revert back to her usual sweet disposition. She is the least likely of the three to become melancholy, possibly because she is the youngest, but also because everyone loves her.

Sigrid is the reliable one. She is the oldest and seems to understand him the best. In many ways, she is the only reason Bard can still work without worrying about so many things that his wife used to take care of: cooking, cleaning, chores, minding Tilda. Whenever Sigrid says she will do something, Bard does not doubt that she will follow through.

When the rest of Lake-town has begun to move about, Bard takes it as signal as time to take the barge out. He takes his midday meal packed from Sigrid and bids them all to goodbye until later that day. He gives a hello to the men sitting in their small canoe below his house and jauntily reminds them he's gone for most of the day so they might as well move along with their business.

His barge is covered with a layer of frost from the night, but Bard doesn't bother to scrape it off. It will only sodden his sleeve, and the ice will melt soon enough, once he is south enough. Other than the weathering the barge has accumulated over the years, however, it is otherwise faultless. Smooth movement, ideal size, and sturdy in rough waters. Bard is fond of his barge, but even more so of his bow, which he keeps stowed close by.

The waters are calm today. The only sounds are of the water being pushed back and forth. There are few other men on the Long Lake, as is customary, Bard thinks. King Thranduil is reluctant to have anything to do with anything outside his walls, and trade with the Woodleam Realm has dwindled as of late. Dorwinion, too, must be suffering for the lack of trade. Bard thinks to the stories he used to hear of when Esgaroth thrived, when no one went cold or hungry. But such thoughts are a waste of time, because those times have gone. Bard pushes them out of his mind for reality, the reality that is a bargeman floating steadily along in the lake.

A bargeman's work is thus, solitary and monotonous. Bard passes time by picking out familiar landmarks along his route. The ice chunks tend to melt near tree that hangs low over the edge of the water. A tree that boasts brilliant red leaves all year round stands a bend past it, and Bard sees the frost start to drip into the river, staining the wood of the barge with its imprint that will fade in a few minutes' time. Then the silty river bottom becomes a bed of pebbles, the water even more still. The current here is very gentle; he hardly needs to steer.

Bard pulls up to the stony dock and ties the barge to the anchor. Barrels are lying upon the stony shore, sodden from their trip downstream, but intact. One by one, Bard empties them of water and drags them up the gentle slope towards the dock, until he has collected all of them. He inspects each one for anything it might be hiding in its depths and when he finds nothing, rolls it onto the barge.

The return journey is slower, the barge slightly weighed down by its extra burdens, but just as silent. The hazy sun is his only comfort as he draws closer to the Long Lake again, the icy air hanging upon him.

Percy stops him at the gate out of routine only, for Bard knows his papers are barely glanced at each time he comes through. It is a convenience Bard tries not to exploit. For all his desire to provide for his children—and to a lesser extent, all of Lake-town—he does not wish to provoke Alfrid or the Master any more than they claim he does. Alfrid often skulks around the gate to catch unlucky smugglers anyhow.

Cleared, Bard pulls his barge through and makes for the wharf, where he will transfer the barrels to another man to be carried to Dorwinion. He helps the man load the barrels, secures his barge, and leaves for home. He wishes he had more to do, but there isn't anything else. One trip is all that is required of him, one trip to feed his family.

He arrives home to find Sigrid and Tilda out at the market. Bain, sitting at the table with an old book, informs him that they'll be back soon, and they are, with fresh (or as fresh as food can be in Lake-town) ingredients for dinner, which they start right away. The sky is starting to darken into dark pinks and purples. Bain starts a fire in the hearth.

After dinner there are more chores to do, but Bard takes care of them while the children relax. There isn't much for the three of them to do in the little house, but Tilda has an imagination large enough for all of them. The older Sigrid and Bain are sometimes reluctant to play along with her games, preferring quieter activities, but they always end up doing so anyway. It's never for long anyway. Tilda eventually grows tired. She changes into her nightclothes and after a hug from Bard, is put to bed.

Sigrid and Bain stay up later, talking to Bard about everything. They are both well aware of the politics of the town and are anxious to get everything they can in regards it. Bard doesn't mind discussing it with them, not even the talk of election that has been subtly gaining traction within Lake-town. But when they grow too idealistic, Bard gently puts a hold on the conversation and tells them to go to bed. No use having them build their hopes up on something he's sure the Master will never agree to.

He puts another log on the fire to keep it burning a little while longer and watches it as the flames leap and spark in the hearth. Slowly the wood burns down enough for him to safely leave it. Bard swaps his coats and falls down onto his bed, closing his eyes. The next day is soon.


End file.
